


A Morning in May

by guileheroine



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Introspection, Marriage, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guileheroine/pseuds/guileheroine
Summary: Lyra begins an important day with an unplanned visit to the Botanic Garden.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua/Original Character, Lyra Belacqua/Will Parry
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	A Morning in May

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsunerei88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/gifts).



> This makes some references to The Book of Dust but is completely understandable without knowledge of it (I'm not caught up myself).

At first, Lyra’s soon-to-be-groom had wanted to get married on Midsummer’s Day. At the instant of his suggestion, Lyra had known that  _ that  _ was going to be the one exception to her rather nonchalant approach to this whole wedding business. If he was surprised to see Pan stiffen halfway to the butter dish - to see Lyra’s face become strange, instead of supplying another nod of assent or amiable shrug - he didn’t show it. And he knew not to probe, and the rest of their afternoon passed like an easy breeze. 

That was something she truly liked - alright, loved even - about him.

Today the sunlight was pouring like it was already mid-morning, and even if she had slept at all, Lyra thought she would probably still have woken at the crack of dawn. She was glad to see that Pan, at least, had gotten some rest for the both of them. The moment he was up, she leapt out of bed and threw on a linen scrap of a dress, sparing a brief glance to the much fancier one that hung portentously from her wardrobe, Coptic cotton trimmed with yards of eyelet lace. 

She was out before she knew why. The High Street was deserted: the kind of silent emptiness under blaring yellow sun that never failed to remind her of Cittagazze, even though she had since travelled to many a sultry city where the streets cleared out by midday. 

The only warden at the Botanic Garden was dozing in his uniform. Not wanting to wake him, Lyra crept down Rose Lane instead and swung over one of the fences, following Pan’s lead. The floral cocktail that enveloped her as she did was buoyed by the cooked air of the morning, and as she walked she went over the order of the flowers for the ceremony in her head. Then she stopped and breathed deeply when a new smell entered and dominated the notes - a shrub that she always passed on the short walk to the back of the garden. One Midsummer’s Day many years ago, Lyra had swept some of the fallen flowers on her way to the bench, had gone to sleep talking to Will, and awoken after dark, steeped in the scent. She searched for the plaque amongst the overgrown leaves the next day, and it said the flower was Indian jessamine. 

Lyra crashed onto the bench. Then she sat up straight, her clammy hands fisted in the linen of her dress. And then, she wiped her hands and straightened her skirt, scuffing her foot against the leg of the bench. Now that they were here, the point of their coming could only stare her head on with an expectant sort of bluntness. 

There was no reason for Will to be here today, so she really had come all for herself, as grim as that admission felt. Whatever, she  _ knew  _ that. Lyra exhaled, one hand cradling Pan as he burred in her lap. 

“Will. I know it’s not Midsummer’s Day. But I’m getting married today.” 

  
  
  


Once she reached a certain age, Lyra had become aware that she should expect to start hearing more cloaked questions about ‘her thoughts’ on marriage - if not a few outright proposals, whether on the asker’s own behalf or that of some eager acquaintance. Her college friends had learnt not to ask, having long cast Lyra - usually with a bit of disdain or envy, it had to be said - as someone too flighty for anything more than dalliances with foreign rogues (or local ones, who may as well have been foreign to the well-heeled St Sophia’s girls.) Funnily enough, very few of her more settled friends made mention of her romantic entanglements, probably because it was a subject too awkward to broach for the stodgy male scholars that this cohort mostly consisted of, many of whom were themselves bachelors, if not proud ones. 

Amongst all her scholar friends, it was Hannah Relf - quite uncharacteristically considering  _ her  _ proud bachelor status, Lyra had thought, not a little miffed - that had nudged her gently about some boy she knew, a few years ago. She told Lyra that they should meet, and a little about what he did. “He’s new in town, that’s all, and he has some literary expertise that I thought might interest you,” she eventually stammered, once Lyra’s indisposition to the idea had been made apparent. She had plenty access to literary expertise of all kinds, thank you very much.

Maybe Hannah just thought Lyra was lonely. And when that thought finally occurred to her, walking home from Walton Street, hunched against the cutting chill, Lyra’s indignant gait loosened a little.

Anyway, that was how she first heard of Cador Bowman, though she didn’t meet him until a few months later. 

That spring Lyra was reading about Celtish legends, obsessively following that call that sometimes came over her - when a subject of inquiry felt both familiar and strange, and gained an elusive, unquenchable appeal as a result. Lyra had come to collect a rare volume at a specialist bookstore down St Clement’s, and she had come herself in the rain rather than ordering it sent because she heard the store was operated by a Cornish folklorist of some repute. 

It was only during a lull in their conversation about magic mist, as he flipped through the frighteningly papery pages with a practised balance of speed and caution, that Lyra’s thoughts found a moment to fall into place.

“Oh! Are you Hannah’s fairy guy?”

He was fairly startled at that, and his doe daemon furrowed her brow at Pan, but he confirmed that he knew her. After a few more stormy evenings in the bookshop discussing all manner of legends near and far, Lyra was fully prepared to whisk him off on some escapade where he might put all his knowledge to good use - this curious man whose curiosity could match hers, who treated wild rumours with the casual reverence that Lyra always knew, even before all her adventures, was the correct way to treat them. 

“It’s like he’s been touched by something,” Lyra said, slinging her bookbag over her shoulder on one of those early days. She liked to think of herself in the same way. 

“Yeah, by you,” Pan snorted. 

Lyra was surprised to find that she didn’t bore of him. There was nothing dangerous about Cador Bowman, but he accorded the thrill of danger the utmost respect (even if he only liked it in theory) - something that made Lyra feel surprisingly understood. 

She realised that he felt understood in turn when he brought up the topic of marriage one day. They were eating their lunch by the river while they planned a winter trip. He refused to be ashamed of his own tactlessness, though Winnie, his daemon (Lyra and Pan still could never remember how to pronounce her full Cornish name), pulled as far from them as possible, practically disappearing over the bank on her bony legs.

  
  
  


All this she recounted to Will on the bench. 

“You would like him,” Lyra said. “He reminds me of you in some ways, quite a serious person all told. Not quite as brave - I’ve never met anyone as brave as you, Will - but, oh, he’d be the first to admit it...” She found herself laughing, flush with affection for both the boys in question.

“Anyway, it’s lucky we settled on today, because it’s not going to be fair weather for long…” 

She told him about how she had it on the Gyptians’ word that half a year’s worth of rain would be upon them before the month was up. It was important to Lyra that they deemed the day she chose an auspicious day. As she spoke she remembered she still had to go collect the bells she wanted to wear in her hair - a Gyptian wedding tradition she had tucked in her mind ever since that furious week where she thought she might actually marry Dick Orchard one day. That fancy obviously passed, but she still wanted the bells... and she’d probably better hurry if she did.

It was odd to feel her mind straying, struggling for more to tell. On her usual trip to the garden, she had so much to say to Will. Maybe it just wasn’t the same, knowing that over in that world his own attention wasn’t hers today in the same way. 

She’d be back next month, and then she could tell him how the wedding had actually gone. 

Lyra found herself wondering, like she had many times, though she didn’t say it aloud: did Will ever want to get married -- had he already done so, perhaps? Did he have someone?

Unlike all the times before, she realised that she hoped he did. Not because it would assuage any remorse on her part, but truly because he deserved it - the same tentative anticipation she was awash with, now that she had voiced her choices to him.

“So that’s it, really. Wedding, this afternoon. I can’t say for certain that I know what I’m doing with all this but... I just wanted - I  _ needed  _ \- to tell you about it, to make sure you were a part of my day today. And also to say that I’ll always love you, but I know you know that.” 

On her way out of the garden, Lyra surreptitiously snatched one of the Indian jessamines off the bush, pocketing the flower for her bouquet. 


End file.
